


Around his little finger, that boy has got lies curled

by Narucch



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Hands, M/M, Possibly OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narucch/pseuds/Narucch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shinji's hands are honest.<br/>Akihiko aren't. He has made running away a habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Around his little finger, that boy has got lies curled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meadz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadz/gifts).



> The title is taken from a line of Crave You by Flight Facilities.  
> Possibly OOC because I haven't played the game in a while. Also, possible spoilers regarding Akihiko's and Shinjiro's subplots in P3P!  
> And for the sake of realism, let's give the dorm a kitchenette LOL

Akihiko didn’t like his own hands. He gloved them to hide them. He clutched his fists to hit; shifted his weight, focused on his muscles and struck with all his might.

His open fingers, with the nerves sticking out of his skin, the pale, smooth surface of his hands—all these things reminded him of that fire.

Miki was screaming inside and he was grabbing the fire, receiving only burning pain in return.

The shape of his hands changed with the years. They were rougher, bonier, but he could still see fire between his fingers. He couldn’t let go.

 

Shinji’s hands were different, though. They held an axe in battle, gripping the rough wood or metal. His fingers had to keep a perfect grip on his weapon; he had to swing it like if he was Death himself, one blow and the mask of a Shadow was feet away. A decapitation, but without a real head. Akihiko thought he could make a pun out of it.

Shinji’s fingers could also be precise. Akihiko remembered him cooking, faded pictures in his mind. He once saw Shinji chopping some cucumber, really thin, like professional cooks on TV did. He loved to watch those programs and then order delivery deli, because he had forgotten to do groceries—not like they really needed to—so he could practice on side stuff, like salad and vegetables, but he had a meal ready that he couldn’t screw.

And those knives were big. They could slice through raw meat like it was butter. Akihiko didn’t like to handle them, but in the hands of Shinji those didn’t look like lethal weapons anymore

But the time he could dream of buying him a frilly pink apron just to enjoy his reaction—he didn’t know what made him so cheeky—was gone.

 

Shinji was not attending classes anymore. He was somewhere, doing something with someone. It was not Akihiko’s business anymore.

Shinji’s beanie almost covered his eyes. Those were hollow, and eye bags were carved in his cheeks. He didn’t _really_ need to shave, but he was shabby. His posture showed no care. Shinji looked shady with his coat buttoned up all the way and his hands hidden in those pockets that could have anything inside them.

A gun or an Evoker? Or maybe Strega’s pills.

He didn’t have knives to chop vegetables anymore. Akihiko had asked him how did he manage to eat, but he got no answer.

Sometimes it was Hagakure’s ramen, then. They ate in silence, with the chatter of the businessmen  to cover the awkwardness. Some other times it was Beef Bowl, when Akihiko was worried the most with Shinji. If his eyes were particularly cold and his posture worse than usual, Akihiko knew that Shinji had neglected food and he just treated him a couple of beef bowls.

 

Once they passed in front of a TV shop. The window displayed big screens, small screens, bright screens, black screens. All the devices aired a documentary on savannah. A lioness with her muzzle soaked in blood roared to the viewers.

Akihiko shot a glance to Shinji and saw that he was actually slowing down to watch it. His eye bags were purple and painful to see. He also needed a shower, but Akihiko didn’t address it, as well as Shinji.

A TV for him was nothing. It was background noise—but Shinji had been cut off of everything. Refusing most of the help he could receive. He was punishing himself bathing in that humiliation.

Akihiko stopped on the sidewalk and Shinji imitated him, looking at the screen.

“You have always loved that kind of program,” said Akihiko. Documentaries about animals and cooking programs. And the news—he cared about what was happening around him.

Shinji shrugged and turned his head. His eyes were reddened by tiredness, covered by his beanie and his hair.

“Come back to the dorm. Only for a couple of hours. It’ll stay empty until late evening.” Despite his firm tone of voice, he was begging him. He needed to help him. “I don’t want to talk you about S.E.E.S. now. You can just check if your room is really empty, and then you can shower and cook something and rest on a real bed.”

“You don’t think I rest on a proper bed?” asked Shinji with his coarse voice. Was it because of the pills?

“I don’t care.” And that wasn’t exactly true. It didn’t matter at the moment.

Akihiko was still running away, chasing after Shinji because he could have the confirmation that everything between them had happened. It was, deep down, a selfish act. For a couple of hours he wanted to stop running, just accepting Miki’s death, his tears, his nightmares. He wanted things to be normal again, with Shinji and Mitsuru, chasing Shadows together, easy like chasing ants.

Shinji was staring at him with no joy in eyes. “Your excuses sound pathetic.”

“Shinji!”

The other young man clenched his fists inside his coat pockets. “I haven’t said no, though.”

 

Akihiko still wanted to check Shinji’s room, although he knew it was empty. He had all the three keys. There were only the textbooks open on the table and some pens. Shinji had sold everything else to survive on the street, or whenever he was living at the moment.

Shinji’s clothes were going to take longer to wash and dry than a shower.

“This will do.” Akihiko threw him a shirt and some sweatpants. The clothes were oversized for him, but barely fitted Shinji.

When they entered the kitchenette and Shinji opened the fridge to take what he could take, Akihiko was surprised in seeing his nails short and clean. He had also shaved. Yes, the purple eye bags under his eyes were still there, and he looked off without his beanie, but he had put some effort in it.

Shinji’s hands were broad and rough, with cuts and scratches. They were clean in that moment, though, so that Akihiko could almost see the skin healing.

Shinji took a cutting table from the dashboard—he still remembered where everything was—and some tomatoes.

Those were Takeba’s, but well. He could still run to the supermarket and buy them. He had to improve his stamina anyway.

Shinji cut a tomato in half. He started slicing a half really thin, although his hands were shaky.

“Be careful with it,” warned him Akihiko, his back against the sink. He wasn’t calling the delivery service only because he knew how much Shinji liked creating stuff with his hands to destroy with his mouth. It was a bit like before the accident; he was a nice guy and he showed it with everything he did, but that foul mouth… where did he pick up all that swearing?

The first half of the tomato was sliced. Shinji rested the knife on the glass cutting plate and looked at his hands. They were honest hands. He didn’t wear gloves to run away from what he did—he was embracing it.

“I only came here to see what it would be like.” Shinji grimaced. “And destroy all of it.”

Akihiko glared at him. Of course. Shinji needed motivation to go on, and those hours were going to be his fuel. “Those pills are killing you.”

“I was letting them do it.” Shinji took the knife in his hand and moved the half tomato closer. “This will do for a bit.”

His hands were wet with tomato juice. Too watery to be blood. The knife sliced the fleshy fruit and Akihiko averted his gaze.

“All of this could be yours again.” Akihiko looked around the kitchenette. “All of it, again.”

“Don’t fucking start again,” growled Shinji. “I’m taking my responsibilities. Don’t you dare being the preachy one.”

Akihiko narrowed his eyes. Annoyance grew in him—a weird kind. Red and fleshy, but instead of hitting he wanted to hold. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t even be honest with yourself.”

Akihiko clenched his fists and the sound of leather on leather reminded him of that small habit of putting gloves on. Running away had become an habit for him.

“I’m not worthy of the life you want to give me,” continued Shinji. “Not even of what you can’t admit yourself.”

Akihiko glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You select carefully what to say. What to see. What to _think_. You’re scared, aren’t you? But I don’t give a fuck.” Shinji placed the knife in the sink, brushing Akihiko’s arm with his own. “It’s up to you to sort your shit out.” He walked to the fridge and retrieved some more vegetables.

Akihiko stood right in front of Shinji. His messy hair. The unfitting clothes. His broad, curved shoulders. “I don’t understand you.”

He didn’t understand his desperate need to run away—but he was strong, he had to endure it. He didn’t understand the monster inside of him that was crawling outside, planting his long claws in his stomach and ripping it open. It was a greedy monster that didn’t want to see Shinji’s hands covered in blood. Skin—wasn’t it so much better? Akihiko’s, maybe—

He just wanted to protect Shinji.

 

They were such big liars.


End file.
